Currently listening to: Miss Americana & The Heartbreak Prince – Taylor Swift
It’s you and me, that’s my whole worldThey whisper in the hallway, “She’s a bad, bad girl” (okay)The whole school is rolling fake diceYou play stupid games, you win stupid prizesIt’s you and me, there’s nothing like thisMiss Americana and The Heartbreak Prince (okay)We’re so sad, we paint the town blueVoted most likely to run away with you
What experiences in life helped you grow the most?
#1. Looking back, I can pinpoint moments that shaped me—broke me, built me, and forced me to evolve. But nothing quite compares to the summer during high school when my mother disguised a trip back to the motherland as a “vacation” but instead, it was a trick to lock me up in a Christian work camp for troubled youths.
But it wasn’t just troubled kids. There were also murderers, felons, and ex-gang members from both the U.S. and South Korea, all dumped into the same rural outpost where survival felt less like a metaphor and more like a test of endurance. The day began before dawn, our bodies still aching from the day before. We were forced to run for miles and if we fell behind, we’d get hit on the head. I learned quickly that speed was survival, that exhaustion was no excuse.
Meals were sparse—rice, kimchi, and an egg. Three times a day, the same thing. I was starving every day. My stomach rumbled but I tried to reframe the situation. I was developing washboard abs from hauling rocks and dirt in a makeshift bucket strapped to my back. But strength meant nothing if you weren’t fast enough. If you lagged, the workers would throw rocks at you, drag you across the dirt and rocks while everyone else watched in horror, a brutal warning of what happened to the weak.
Twelve to fourteen hour shifts in the fields were followed by nightly worship services and Bible study, where my exhaustion fought against my will to stay awake. My brother nudged me constantly so that I would not get into more trouble while at the “camp”.
New kids arrived every week. Some were from Korea. Others, like us, who weren’t hardened criminals were from the States. A surprising number of them came from Houston, Texas—go figure.
We slept on the floor, crammed 35 females to a room. Privacy was a privilege we didn’t have. The communal bathrooms lacked stalls, forcing us to relieve ourselves in full view of one another. Showers were the same—there was no hiding, no modesty, no choice. It was prison without a sentence, a punishment without a crime. Sure, I was a troublemaker, but did I deserve this? To be broken down to nothing, to be stripped of dignity, of autonomy? This was far beyond any “scared straight” program.
When I was finally “released”, I barely recognized myself. At 5’6”, I weighed only 95 pounds, approximately 43 kilos—my body gaunt, my cheekbones sharp. My grandmother took one look at me and nearly wept. She fed me, showered me with love, stuffed my pockets with money as if trying to undo the months of deprivation. I never wanted to leave her side.
This was the beginning of my distrust towards my mother, who still claims to this day that she genuinely thought it was a Bible camp. I questioned religion too because what went on there wasn’t right. But I did learn how to survive and become resilient.
#2. After I graduated from uni, I became the youngest director the organization had ever seen. A big fish in a small pond, I let the power get to my head. I thought I had what it took, but leadership isn’t just about control—it’s about balance. I had to not only manage patients, but staff as well. Older employees dismissed me because of my age, while younger ones saw me as their equal. Respect wasn’t given; it was earned. And earning it meant working twice as hard as everyone else. I couldn’t be the dictator my instincts wanted me to be—I had to win their buy-in.
They weren’t just my employees. They became my children—52 of them, and I was their single mother. Each of them had their own struggles. They came to me with personal problems, seeking solutions so they could function, so they could do their jobs. I learned that people don’t just need rules—they need guidance, praise, and patience.
Executive management gave me nothing—no direction, no support. It was sink or swim. So I swam. Sixteen-hour days became my new norm. I was living off Cheez-Its (white cheddar), gummy bears, and coffee. Stress eroded my body, my mind. I was a hollowed-out version of myself once again, but this time, it wasn’t from malnutrition. It was from burnout. I had built myself into one of the best in management, but at what cost?
It was a pivotal moment for me because I realized that I did not want to climb the corporate ladder. I didn’t want to drink the damn Kool Aid. And I sure as hell didn’t want to continue doing this.
I learned that self care is important. I have to take care of myself, no one else is going to do that for me. I learned that everyone is replaceable. I could die from sheer exhaustion and the next day, my job would be posted for another person to apply for.
#3. Losing my uncles. Losing my father. Grief has a way of slamming life into perspective. Live in the moment. That’s what I took from it all. Do what you want, when you want. There’s no guarantee of later. I could die tomorrow in an accident, or I could live another forty years and succumb to disease.
I don’t want to have regrets when I get old and say, “I shoulda, coulda, woulda…” because by that time, it’s too late.
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